


Stupid With Love

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Drinking, Drunk Sherlock Holmes, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Funny, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Humor, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Male Friendship, One Shot, Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, References to ABBA, Short One Shot, Smitten Sherlock, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes agrees to join Lestrade for a drink, he allows himself to drink liberally. With the alcohol acting as a social lubricant, the pair bond over shared jokes and drunken conversation. Sherlock even permits himself to open up and expose those portions of his personality he typically keeps hidden- including his experience with love.Shenanigans ensue, and Sherlock realizes he doesn't only have one friend: he has two.Now we know why Sherlock was so hesitant to get hammered in John's presence during the stag night.





	Stupid With Love

**Author's Note:**

> You know what? Sherlock still doesn't know Lestrade's name. But Lestrade doesn't care. You know why? Because Lestrade is a smart man who understands people as well as detective work. He knows how Sherlock is and he understands that Sherlock's ability to care for others is not rooted in his ability to recall names.
> 
> My last two works burned the heart out of me as I wrote them so this happy story rose from the ashes.
> 
> Alternate title for this work: Lestrade is the Amazing Friend We All Want and Deserve.

“It’s one drink, Sherlock,” Lestrade implored, the words alight with exasperation.

“No” repeated Sherlock, throwing his chin up in defiance at the proposition and turning on his heels to stride from the room.

A sigh loaded with frustrated disappointment escaped Lestrade behind him. The sound shot a wave of irritation through him and although he fought against the urge to turn around that was welling inside him, the attempt was futile.

He turned back to face the man, shooting him with dangerous eyes. “What?” he snapped in a flat tone.

Lestrade’s head jumped up from where it was hanging, surprise clear in his eyes to see Sherlock standing before him again.

“Oh,” he said, his hand jumping to the back of his neck. “I just thought you’d actually accept this time, is all.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the man. He was clearly upset that Sherlock was refusing. But why? He knew why Lestrade was upset about his personal life- could read it in his shaving pattern and the state of his cufflinks. But why would he be upset about his refusal to join him in a drink? It had never bothered him before.

“Why?” drawled Sherlock.

“Well you know,” he said with a shrug. “What with John and your newfound attitude, I thought you’d maybe at least consider the proposal.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, his hand gesticulating around him as he scoffed, “My ‘newfound attitude’? What ‘newfound attitude’? I don’t have a ‘newfound attitude.’”

“Oh, please!” said Lestrade with a laughter that fluttered his words. “Come off it. You can’t pretend you haven’t noticed how he's changed you.”

“How _who_ has changed me?”

Lestrade let out a bark of laughter that shook his belly. “For a man so clever, you are so bloody dense.” When Sherlock continued to silently glare at him, he shook his head and, exasperated, he said, “ _John_ , you idiot.”

Sherlock felt a rush of blood that he prayed stayed out of his cheeks. “What about him?” he shot, a bit too quickly with perhaps too much venom.

“You really don’t know?” asked Lestrade, his smile subtly faltering into pity.

Sherlock had no answer. He did not want to verbally admit that he didn’t fully understand what Lestrade was saying. Thus, he opted for silence instead.

Lestrade sighed and put his hands on his hips. After looking at the ground for a moment, he looked up and said in an even tone, “He’s changed you, Sherlock. I mean, of course, there are the obvious changes like how much happier you are and how much more patience you have with- well, with all of us. But more than that, you’re also more inclined to think of how your actions impact those around you. You’re- dare I say it- more social and kind.”

Sherlock processed these words, absorbed them, and remained stoic toward Lestrade. He wasn’t sure what to make of this analysis. It was true that being with John made him happier. He did hold in retorts in an effort to be the sort of man John wanted him to be. But social and kind? Never.

“So you think because I have one friend, I’ll want to gallivant around town with you?”

“No. I thought you might join _another_ friend for a drink- just once- because you would realize they want to spend time with you and I _figured_ you’d at least tolerate it- just once.”

Sherlock put every effort into not letting the words impact him. However, try as he might, it was no use. The words sunk deep within him, compassion and joy growing in his heart at the words.

Lestrade wanted to spend time with him. _Another friend_.

How long had he been misinterpreting their relationship, then? How long had Lestrade considered him a friend while Sherlock saw him as a colleague?

The portion of him that fought brutally against closer connections was growling inside him. Sherlock turned on his heels, aware of Lestrade’s silence as he paced toward the door. One hand on the handle, he stopped.

“Are you coming, then?” he called, an unseen smirk aimed at the door.

“You- what?” Lestrade called, bewildered. “You’re going?”

“With or without you, Inspector.”

The echoing sound of excited footsteps pacing quickly toward him spread a welcome warmth through his heart.

 

* * *

 

The third scotch grew warm in his stomach when it happened. Mind swirling, senses dulled, the words slipped out unbidden:

“This is gross,” said Sherlock absently with a crease between his brows.

Lestrade, who had been in the middle of saying something, stopped to stare at him. “What's gross?”

Sherlock lazily held up the scotch in his hand, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the lip of the cup. The next moment, in one swift motion, the rest of the drink was flowing down his throat.

“What the hell-”

“The _scotch_ , Lestrade. It is gross,” said Sherlock dismissively. “I'm going to order something better.”

He seemed taken aback, on the cusp of offended, but Sherlock didn't know why. Nor could he figure out why, strangely enough. The dulling impact of alcohol on his mind was not one he typically cared for. Now, however, it felt nearly… relieving.

It was not that Sherlock underestimated the impact of alcohol. Nor was Sherlock unable to calculate how much alcohol would be needed to achieve maximum enjoyment. Rather, he was determined to allow the different side of himself to come out tonight. Not only for himself, but for Lestrade.

It was evident that Lestrade was in desperate need of a night out with a friend; with someone who would have fun and engage in shared laughter. The fastest course of action, of course, was for Sherlock to allow himself to "let loose." By letting loose, he would provide him with the entertainment of seeing the side of Sherlock that was so often locked away. It would help him, he knew it would.

However, the alcoholic beverages were proving beneficial to himself as well. His mind was not threatening to crush him with thought. He did not feel terrified and unable to connect with others. He suddenly struggled to recall exactly _why_ he refused to get close to anyone.

An echo of Mycroft's words echoed meaninglessly in his mind: " _Caring is not an advantage_." What did he know?

The influence of alcohol on the mind: never again would he underestimate the benefit of it.

Sherlock returned to their isolated corner-booth holding a drink that was infinitely superior to the three scotches that preceded it and sat down with his elbows on the table. Lestrade was smirking at him, his eyes attempting- and failing- to avoid contact with the drink in front of him.

“Why are you smirking?” asked Sherlock with attempted severity.

“Absolutely no reason, mate.” He drank more of his own scotch and shot a subtle glance toward Sherlock's drink once more.

“It's good,” defended Sherlock with a pout. To reinforce his point, he swept his glass into his hand and took a long drag of the bright orange slushie. The action caused a brain freeze that Sherlock attempted to quell subtly, but his wince surely gave him away.

“I didn't say anything!” Lestrade threw his hands up in innocence. “Just didn't expect it is all.”

Sherlock's muddled mind could only manage a continued glare in response.

Lestrade heaved a sigh before rolling his eyes and saying in a diplomatic tone, “Look, I'm not judging you, alright? I just thought with- you know… your serious attitude and your... whole 'thing’... The drink choice is just a bit of a surprise. But it’s fine. Really.”

“Lestrade, there is something very important you need to know,” said Sherlock in a solemn tone. He leaned forward, the lapel of his jacket absorbing liquid previously spilled on the table. “I have never been serious a day in my life.”

Lestrade choked on his drink from laughter he couldn't contain. A smile crept along Sherlock's mouth despite his best effort to remain stoic.

Lestrade was still dabbing at his shirt where alcohol had dribbled onto it when he spoke again. “Come off it, you're never _not_ serious.”

“An act.”

“An act?”

“Obviously.”

Lestrade wore a half-smile of disbelief, though his eyes tightened in concentration. Clearly, he was unable to distinguish whether or not Sherlock was joking.

 _Bitch, don’t do it_ , he thought to himself, but his loose tongue was only too happy to confide in the Detective Inspector.

“Just because I don’t _show_ emotion doesn’t mean I am not in possession of any,” said Sherlock with a dainty wave of his hand that wasn’t holding his blended Mai Tai.

Leaning back in his seat, Lestrade took a long sip of his drink, his eyes remaining on Sherlock.

“Why, then?” he asked after some time.

Sherlock blinked, the question taking more than a second to process. He held up one finger and took a great gulp of his beverage, the small umbrella sinking lower into the glass. It was impossible, he knew, but the impact of it _felt_ instantaneous.

 _You shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach,_ said the voice in his head. It was quite right, of course. His tolerance of alcohol was already minuscule and the effect of it was made worse by the lack of food in his system.

“Emotions are dangerous,” he said to his glass. “Feeling things, attachments- they are wolves in sheep’s clothing. While appealing, they open opportunities for suffering. However, if you don’t open yourself to feelings-”

“Then you can’t be hurt,” finished Lestrade with a serious nod.

“Ah, there’s that brilliant mind that has propelled you to your position.”

“Hey,” snapped Lestrade. “There’s no need-”

“No!” corrected Sherlock so quickly that a great deal of beverage spilled onto the table from his nervous hand motion. Ignoring the spreading orange mess, he reached a hand out across the table toward Lestrade, hoping the motion would help convey his sincerity. “No, I am not poking fun, George. I mean it. You’re sharp and you pick things up easily. You just- you know- sometimes need help getting there.”

“That’s why you have me,” added Sherlock playfully after a moment. A great, crooked smile crossed Sherlock’s face when he saw Lestrade’s face soften as his words sunk in.

“You’re a right faker, aren’t you?” responded Lestrade light-heartedly with a shake of his head.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again. “Don’t tell John.”

With a clang, Lestrade’s empty glass met the table. “Alright, time to refill. Next round’s on me, want anything?”

“Another Mai Tai, good man.”

It felt ages before his friend returned. Sherlock finished his drink, the buzz in his head leaning away from tipsy and traveling closer to drunk. He slouched against the booth, his body refusing to maintain any notion of formality.

When he did return, it was with a gracious amount of pub food in addition to the men’s beverages.

“George, you clever bastard. You’ve deduced the inner desires of my mind,” proclaimed Sherlock. His body drooped forward lazily to pick up a solitary chip. He ate the thing in one bite and it was absolutely glorious.

The man’s hand jumped to his mouth, clearly attempting to cover yet another smile. “Sure thing, mate. Just off a case, knew you must be starving. Not a good practice to drink with nothing in there, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said dismissively. Then, suddenly, the thought was in his head and his mouth was heeding no caution. “How long have we been friends?”

“Pardon?” His eyes were sparkling and, though his mind was dulled on the finer ability to deduce, he knew Lestrade was enjoying their time together.

“At the precinct. You called me a friend.”

“Well hell, Sherlock, I don’t know. You’ve grown on me. Used to just take challenging cases to you because I needed your expertise but over time… I started rather enjoying your antics.” He shrugged and took another swig of his drink. “I knew you’d never consider me a mate, but didn’t stop me from appreciating your company.”

Perhaps if Sherlock’s mind was in a proper place to apply his standard defenses to displays of such kindness, he would have a clever retort at the ready. Yet the words penetrated his mind, burrowing deep within him to make his heart flip with joy. He filed them in his mind palace where they would be available to revisit.

And so they sat together, pounding the drinks until the pair were right and proper mates. Sherlock unabashedly snorted his Mai Tai out his nose when Lestrade cause an uproar of laughter with a spot-on impression of Anderson. Lestrade asked him to make deductions about the bartender and the pair fell over in giggles when he could only muster, “He is a man. He is… male,” after a solid minute of concentrating as hard as he could.

After some time, Sherlock's drunk mind demanded sleep. When he fell sideways into the booth from exhaustion and refused to get up, Lestrade denied his request to let him sleep in peace. Getting up in a mess of limbs, Lestrade stumbled away where his eyes couldn’t follow.

 _Good,_ thought Sherlock. _Let a man rest in a booth, will you?_

Then, sudden and loud, a rapid succession of descending piano notes filled the air around them. An 80s synth melody so intoxicating, he immediately arose from the booth, his unfocused eyes finding his friend by an ancient jukebox.

He was on his feet before the first “ _ooh_ ” escaped the machine.

“ _You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life…_ ” sang ABBA.

“Look who’s up now,” shouted Lestrade over the din of the song.

“Not now,” he screamed back before joining the jukebox for a rousing three performances of Dancing Queen. Lestrade joined in, singing off-key and gesturing passionately toward Sherlock while he danced around the mostly-abandoned pub.

If this was abnormal behavior from his patrons, the bartender didn’t show it. Absent-mindedly cleaning about, he looked up only when Sherlock stumbled over a rogue chair and threatened it with words of violence.

“So you really just… turn it all off, yeah?” said Lestrade with a sigh after they fatigued themselves with dancing and resigned themselves back to their booth. The thing was now a disaster of spilled liquids, sticky crumbs, and garbage.

Sherlock nodded in response and Lestrade thought hard for a moment. “You know, you’re lucky. Won’t ever have to know the pain of love, I guess.”

“Mm,” said Sherlock with a shake of his head. “Wrong.”

“What? How am I wrong?!”

“I’m not a _machine_ , George. I’ve been in love.”

“What?” he asked, a laugh shaking the words. “When?”

Sherlock thought hard on the question. When was the first time? “When I was five, I fell in love, I think.” When Lestrade raised his eyebrows, he continued with a wave of his hand, “It didn’t last. He ran from me.”

“What do you mean he ran from you?” he asked in a slur. Sherlock’s heart relaxed infinitely when he had no visible or verbal reaction to the use of “he.”

“I mean he ran from me- literally ran from me.” He picked up a cold, slightly damp chip from the plate of pub food. His mind told him that eating it would be a perfectly acceptable thing to do, so he ate it. “He ran fast, too. Couldn’t wait to get away from me.”

The man across from him considered this with a somber expression. “You deduced him, didn’t you?”

“Obviously.”

They both giggled and the laughter brought a deeper color to their faces that were already colored with a semi-permanent pink from the alcohol.

“ _Then_ ,” he continued, “it happened again when I was ten- love, I mean.”

“Alright, and who was it this time?”

“Oh, this handsome soldier boy. Obviously too old for me but it didn’t stop me. I waited hours for him outside his dorm with flowers. When he saw me there, he laughed... I cried.”

Lestrade’s smile evaporated, a look of concern glistening in his eyes under furrowed eyebrows. “Bloody hell…” he trailed off. He clearly had never considered Sherlock as a man who would have cried in his life.

“Eh,” he said letting the vowel drag out. “Doesn’t matter. Obviously, I gave up on the ordeal shortly after. Dedicated my life to resisting attachments in the effort to focus on science. I’d always been more than comfortable with it, the science thing, but… I wanted to be better than anybody else. I could deduce perfectly well, but lacked the breadth of scientific knowledge I have now.”

It was only by a small miracle that Lestrade was able to hear every word of this with no troubles. Even to his own ears, the words were a slurred nonsense.

“Alright then, why couldn’t you have just- done both? Be smart and also fall in love with cute boys?”

Sherlock groaned, his mind hurting from the forced therapy Lestrade was shoveling onto him. “I don’t know! Love made me feel stupid, you know? I didn’t get it. But science, criminal cases… Ahhh. They never made me feel stupid. Smart with science but stupid with love. I never got it until now.”

His eyes had closed at some point as he spoke. The dancing had exhausted him and the alcohol was making compelling arguments to fall asleep right there, right then.

“Until now?”

Eyes snapping open, he attempted to pull Lestrade into focus before him. “What?”

A knowing smile crossed his face, nearly all of his teeth exposed at the width of it. “You said you never understood it _until now_.”

“I did not!” snapped Sherlock, a red flush coloring his face that was unrelated to the alcohol.

“You _DID_!” shouted Lestrade pounding the table once with victorious fists.

Focusing quite hard, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Putting every ounce of effort he possessed into the act, he shot daggers at Lestrade with his eyes. He leaned forward in silence, his mouth a hard line.

“I did not,” he said with an attempt at severity. Unfortunately, the result was rather weak, betrayed by the wavering of his tone and beet-red color of his cheeks.

Lestrade pursed his lips to avoid a smirk and chewed his cheek as he seemed to contemplate Sherlock’s words. It seemed ages before, finally, he threw his hands up defeat. Clearly, he decided not to push Sherlock into talking.

So Lestrade changed the subject to one that Sherlock couldn’t pay attention to. Try as he might, Lestrade’s words were floating around his mind with none of them registering. He politely threw “Mhm”s and “Mm-mm”s whenever Lestrade stopped for breath. Because of his focus on maintaining eye contact, the man seemed to have no idea that Sherlock was not processing or understanding a single word he spoke.

When Sherlock’s eyes slid closed and became accompanied by even breathing that was sending him rapidly into sleep, Lestrade patted his shoulder affectionately.

“Come on, mate,” he said.

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock pouted, rolling his shoulder away from his touch and sinking lower into the booth.

“Don’t make me get ABBA again,” threatened Lestrade in a serious tone.

“ _I_ am the dancing queen,” murmured Sherlock before reluctantly grabbing Lestrade’s offered hand and lifting onto unsteady feet.

Lestrade called a cab for the pair and he insisted on sharing the cab, even offering to pay for it. When they were in the cab, the outdoor air and light of twilight woke Sherlock’s mind a bit. A smile grew slowly along his face without his knowledge as his mind wandered.

“What’re you smiling at?” asked Lestrade benignly, drowsiness coating his voice.

“John,” purred Sherlock, his forehead finding relief as it pressed against the cold window.

Putting his hand over his mouth, Lestrade asked, “What about him?”

“I’ll be seeing him quite soon.”

“You mean when you get home?”

“Mmhm,” said Sherlock again, his smile remained glued on his face at the thought. “He’ll be home and I’ll be tipsy and he’ll take care of me.”

“Sounds like a lovely time, mate.”

“Every time with John is a lovely time. I should tell him that. Tonight. I should tell him so many things…” he trailed off, images of proclaiming his love swimming in his content mind.

“Wait- wait, Sherlock I’ve just realized,” said Lestrade loudly, though he couldn’t be bothered to sit up properly.

In way of answering, Sherlock turned his head toward him and stitched his eyebrows together to show curiosity.

“Well, you chose science over love- yeah? But isn’t it _science_ that brought you to John?”

“Oh my.” He stayed silent for a long moment. His mouth was a perfect “O” in reaction to the thought. “Science has given me the cutest boy. Bless science.”

“Tell me more about John, Sherlock,” prompted Lestrade casually.

Sherlock flung himself sideways, resting his head on his hand and smiling into it. “You know what he’s like?”

“I don’t.”

“He’s like that man on the telly- the one who give roses to women, right?”

“The Bachelor. Of course,” agreed Lestrade politely.

Sighing, Sherlock imagined John before him, all 5’7” of shining eyes and strong stature. “He’s so handsome. His big eyes that I want to swim in and his powerful but cute hands and... I can’t wait to be home. Our home.”

“Make your life better, does he?”

“Oh absolutely. Life was rough before him… No offense but the rest of you were just awful. But life is… good now.” Sherlock’s heart beat harder, the image of John floating in his mind.

“See?” said Lestrade with a note of triumph. “And you said you were stupid with love.”

“I am,” said Sherlock sourly.

The man considered this for a time, as he sincerely considered the situation. “Then you gotta self-educate, I reckon.”

Sherlock sat up, the movement taking longer and requiring more effort than it should have.

“This,” he said with a grunt as he attempted to activate his abs, “is why you’re my second best friend. You’re absolutely right. I learned science, why can’t I learn love too?”

With a clap, he responded, “That’s the spirit!”

Sherlock rambled the rest of the cab ride home about John, his words following his train of thought as it changed course through John’s appearance, the cute habits John had, how he changes his behavior to keep John happy, and, most importantly, how excited he was to see him in a few minutes.

Smiling the whole time and allowing Sherlock to get it all out of his system, Lestrade nodded along the whole time. Sherlock was beyond grateful for this. Truth be told, his love had been dangerously close to tearing him apart for want of expression. Now, as he spoke it, he felt his heart release an ancient tension.

Mostly, he was thankful that Lestrade didn’t poke fun, didn’t judge him, and didn’t tell him off. He permitted his ramblings, listening intently as he spoke in circles about John.

When the cab pulled graciously up to Sherlock’s well-known doorstep, he fumbled with the handle for too long before looping his fingers around it and pushing the door open. He fell out in a tumble of clothes and limbs in the almost-darkness and his drunken-haze. After pulling himself back up and staring blindly into the cab as he struggled to lay eyes on Lestrade, he said seriously in his direction, “One more thing, George?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell… you know. Don’t tell John, please? Don’t tell anybody?”

He scoffed in disbelief and said, “Oh please, it’s not my place. Don’t worry about that.”

Sherlock stayed frozen, continuing to look at the man who was coming into focus now.

“You need help out there, mate?” offered Lestrade, mistaking his stillness for inability.

“No,” slurred Sherlock. “I want to say something.”

“Go on then.”

But still, Sherlock remained in place. His mouth opened and closed several times from the effort of forming the words.

“I want to say… thank you. For.. everything. The evening, for listening, inviting me... For being a friend.”

A genuine smile overtook his face, his eyes warm and full of affection as they looked back at Sherlock. “Don’t mention it. Thank you for coming out with me.”

Without another word, Sherlock closed the cab and stumbled up the stairs to find John in his chair. Although he was initially chuffed at Sherlock for running off somewhere without telling him, his mood quickly changed. It was with a smile that John asked in complete disbelief whether Sherlock was drunk.

“What does the evidence suggest, my dear Watson?”

Sherlock’s prediction had been correct: John took care of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock, you drunky, funky, superb little gay man. I love you. Raise your hand if you caught my "come out" symbolism.
> 
> Several years in the future: Sherlock carefully plans not to get too drunk during John's stag night in case he repeats this evening and confesses that he loves John Watson.
> 
> Another alternative title for this: Lestrade is Written With Dashes and Elipses Because His Speech Pattern is So Distinct
> 
> Work inspired by the song "Stupid With Love" performed by Erika Henningsen and also by this Tumblr post:  
> URL: http://thezefronposter.tumblr.com/post/179338277537/theirglassofteaat221b-lestrade-has-to-give-a  
> Post: "Lestrade has to give a somewhat drunk Sherlock a ride home (he was on a stakeout at a pub, and forgot to stop ordering real drinks after the second shot), and Sherlock spends the entire ride talking about how excited he is to get home and see John again."


End file.
